


Tramping Out the Vintage Where the Grapes of Wrath Are Stored

by Lyrstzha



Series: Fruitverse [3]
Category: Firefly
Genre: Angst, Companion Simon, First Kiss, M/M, threatened non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-25
Updated: 2006-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrstzha/pseuds/Lyrstzha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of picking up illicit goats as planned, Mal is taken hostage by Atherton Wing, who promises to release him in exchange for re-entry into the Companion Registry. Simon must impersonate a Companion long enough to get inside and distract Wing---which would work much better if there'd been any way to brief Mal on the plan ahead of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tramping Out the Vintage Where the Grapes of Wrath Are Stored

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aithine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithine/gifts).



> Yes, I do realize that the actual quote is "**trampling** out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored", but 'tramping' proved irresistible. Translations are in mouseover as well as at the end of the text.

There wasn't anything wrong with the plan, at least not as such. Ships came and went from the Eavesdown Docks all the time. Lots of folks did business on Persephone quietly every day. There wasn't any reason a fair-minded person could point to for it not going smooth.

The 'Verse wasn't really impressing Mal as being especially fair-minded these days.

"So, what I'm noticin' most about this here situation is that you might be still carryin' some kinda grudge. You gettin' that feelin', Zoë?" Mal nodded pleasantly at the dozen thugs who stood beside Atherton Wing, all of whom had guns leveled at Mal and Zoë.

"Sure that ain't the case, Sir. Not like you ever offended anyone at a shindig before. Too much natural charm for that."

How Zoë managed to convey sarcasm without moving her eyebrows or much changing her tone had always been one of the great mysteries of the ages for Mal.

"Exactly my thinkin'. Seein' as I'm the picture of manners, I'm wonderin' why our fine friend in his shiny shirt is so all-fired set on ruinin' my day." Mal loaded his tone with as much insolence as he could; after all, he was a big believer in the theory that when the going got tough, the tough got sarcastic.

Atherton only smirked more widely, which was really just adding insult to injury.

"The woman can go." Atherton waved a hand dismissively at Zoë. "So that she can tell that slut who travels with you that I'll be keeping you as my guest," he paused to smile in a way that seemed to imply distinctly unpleasant connotations to 'guest', "until the black mark on my name in the Companion Registry is cleared. I expect a registered Companion knocking at my door by tomorrow."

"Well, now. Unlucky in love, are we? That's a shame. Can't imagine why, unless it's with them as who've met you." Mal was pretty certain he was pushing his luck, but he was missing his pick-up right this minute, and it made him just a mite touchy to be losing out on a solid job, even if it was one that was going to involve droppings.

Mal felt a small, smug sense of satisfaction as Atherton's face finally seemed to swell with rage. But then a short gesture to one of his goons was followed by the quick jab of a shock baton, and Mal found himself on the ground with voltage curling his muscles and graying his vision. It hurt more than a fair piece, but actually not as much as all the juice Niska had passed through him once upon a time. Just before he lost consciousness, it occurred to Mal that it was a funny old 'Verse if he found that a comforting thought.

********

Of course, the first thing Zoë did when she got back to Serenity was to march straight to the bridge and have Wash wave Inara. If there was one thing Zoë had learned from Serenity Valley, it was that some things were more important than not surrendering. Not many, but some.

"I'm sorry, Zoë, but I can't do that. Black marks in the Registry can never be lifted." Inara sighed, but Zoë was sure a lesser woman would have cursed and kicked something instead. Come to that, seeing as Inara's feet weren't visible below the edge of the com screen, for all Zoë knew there _was_ kicking going on down there. "How does that man get himself into these things?"

"Captain's just got that kinda winsome way 'bout him." Zoë waved this digression away. "Ain't there any way you can work this? Leastways, any way you can make him think you did for a while?"

Inara shook her head with a faint jangle of earrings, her restrained frustration clear. "It's not as though I can simply slip onto the Cortex and change the Client Registry. Each house maintains its own copy. Every time an alteration or addition is made, the new information is sent and manually added by each house's clerk. There's no way I can see to remove the black mark."

"Wait," Wash piped up, suddenly straightening from his slouch over the flight controls. "Honey, didn't you tell us that Atherton said he expected a Companion at his door by tomorrow?"

Zoë nodded. "So he did."

Wash snapped his fingers and grinned. "That's it! Only Companions can read the Registry, right? He wouldn't know the black mark wasn't lifted if a Companion accepted a contract with him."

"Wash, no Companion would accept a contract with a black marked client." Inara frowned. "Though perhaps if I left now _I_ could make it there in time..."

Zoë raised a hand to stop Inara. Mal didn't need to be there to object for Zoë to know exactly what he'd say to that. "Might be you could, but ain't no way the Captain would want you givin' yourself up to a man as got a grudge against you. An' I don't think Wing would trust you anyway."

"Nandi would have gone—but there's no one else I know whom I could ask." Inara's face held a visible trace of muted distress under the smooth surface of her reserve.

"Don't we know anyone who could pass for a Companion for an hour or two? Just long enough to get inside, maybe cause a distraction?" Wash looked up at Zoë, his brow furrowed in thought.

Zoë snorted. "Don't look at me, husband. Ain't no man likely to take me for a Companion, even if he hadn't already seen me in my gunbelt."

Wash bumped Zoë's hip with his shoulder, grinning up at her. "That's just because you're scarier than the average beautiful woman."

Zoë brushed her hand lightly across the top of his head, quirking a quick grin at him. Even at times like these, he could still warm her. "That's as may be. But I don't think Kaylee could do it neither, and I don't wanna know if River could."

Inara inhaled sharply, drawing Zoë's attention back to the screen. "Atherton Wing's old profile in the Companion Registry invited contracts with either sex of Companion."

Zoë lifted one eyebrow thoughtfully. "Huh. Who among our menfolk could..."

And her eyes widened and met Inara's with perfect mutual understanding.

"What? What did I miss? Is this one of those female wavelength things that only people with wombs can hear?" Wash poked at Zoë's hip inquiringly with one finger.

*********

"I'm really not certain that I can pass myself off as a Companion." Simon frowned dubiously, spreading the expression liberally between the entire gathering of crew members in the cockpit and the com screen, which still displayed Inara.

"Don't know 'bout that. You got soft skin, act all refined." Jayne looked Simon up and down, grinning wolfishly. "Smell real expensive, too."

Simon gritted his teeth. "That's _soap_, you ape. If you had more than a passing acquaintance with hygiene, it might not smell so exotic to you."

"Hey! Just 'cause I ain't all gorram prissified like you don't mean—"

"Nevertheless, Simon," Inara cut in, "Jayne has a point." She blinked a little, as if somewhat surprised to hear that sentence coming out of her mouth, but then forged gamely ahead. "As far as acting the part goes, you're Mal's best hope."

Simon sighed. "But won't this Wing recognize me?'

Zoë shook her head. "Thought of that, but it don't seem likely he'd know you on sight just from the Cortex bulletins, an' he ain't liable to suspect the pretty Companion at his door is actually a fugitive doctor."

"Well, no. I don't suppose he would. Because that would just be silly." Simon raised a palm to press against his forehead, wondering if this day was really a hallucination brought on by eating expired protein. Or had he possibly accidentally jabbed himself with one of the sedative syringes while tidying up in the infirmary?

"All you gotta do is pass long enough to get inside an' cause a distraction. We'll handle the rest." Zoë clapped him on the back with what she probably intended as encouragement.

Simon crossed his arms sternly. "And what happens when he checks my credentials to make sure I'm really a registered Companion?"

"I think Simon may have discovered the tiny flaw in our otherwise cunning plan, dear," Wash whispered sotto voce to Zoë behind one hand.

"No, no. I've thought of that," Inara reassured in a soothing tone. "I checked for a Companion who resembles you closely enough for you to pass plausibly as him. Give your name as Solomon Dahl."

"Surely Wing will insist on thumb print or retinal verification?" Simon cocked his head dubiously at Inara.

Inara's smile turned positively wicked. "Why, yes. I expect he will. In fact, the plan hinges on it. Stall him as long as you can, then cause your distraction when he pushes the issue. Kaylee will be monitoring his comm traffic for the verification request, and that will be the signal to storm the gates, so to speak."

Simon simply arched a skeptical eyebrow at her.

"You _will_ need something else to wear, though." Inara frowned speculatively at Simon's clothes.

"Can't afford nothin' like what you got, Inara. Ain't been paid in too long." Zoë also looked at Simon thoughtfully, and he felt himself shifting self-consciously under their combined regard.

"Oh!" Kaylee bounced a little on her toes, peering over Zoë's shoulder at the com screen. "I still got all that real pretty cloth you left behind, 'Nara. Bet we could make Simon somethin'. Can't sew much my own self, but maybe somebody else?"

Simon reluctantly glanced at River where she sat curled against the wall in the corner. "Mother said it was pointless, but River learned to sew anyway."

Wash raised his hand. "No offense, but can we maybe have a plan that doesn't involve giving the crazy girl sharp, pointy needles?"

River looked up with a lopsided smile. "Jayne can sew. Made a fancy wedding dress once."

Jayne jerked around to glare at her. "Don't you go wanderin' through my head, girl!"

"Spun straw into gold so the girl could catch her prince. Didn't even ask for her first born after, but she named him for you anyway." River nodded solemnly. "At least Rumpelstiltskin would have been a boy's name."

Jayne jabbed a finger warningly in River's direction. "An' don't you go talkin' crazy 'bout my sister, neither!

River leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Also? He can knit."

*********

Simon tried not to pull on the high, glittering collar of his new silky indigo shirt. Jayne had only had time to stitch just enough to tack it down, and he'd warned Simon sternly against putting any more strain on the seams than absolutely necessary. He'd even shaken a stern, thimble-clad finger at Simon to emphasize this point.

That conversation had gone down in Simon's memory as one of the most surreal he'd ever had.

Simon tried to emulate Inara's graceful glide as he walked through the corridors of Atherton Wing's estate, escorted by a butler and a couple of guards. His hips didn't seem to work quite the right way for it, but judging by the way most of the guards they passed were staring at his ass, he couldn't have been doing too badly. He settled the same serene expression across his features that Inara wore like jewelry, and attempted a polite, pleasant smile.

The estate itself was built of a compact style that Simon supposed was probably more practical on the more dangerous outer planets, rather than the sprawling, airy architecture that was all the rage in the Core. The windows were all spanned with ironwork, which, though wrought in decorative geometric patterns, still looked formidable. Simon also supposed that the decor would have seemed lavish, if he hadn't grown up with better. Still, months on Serenity made the glint of gilding and the gleam of polished marble floors snag at his eye in a way that they never had when he'd taken their presence for granted.

Simon found himself a little bemusedly wondering how many fuel cells the paintings that hung along the walls of the corridor would buy. He made a mental note to call Mal a bad influence at the next opportunity.

The butler led the way around yet another blind corner, and the hallway ended unexpectedly in a reasonably elegant sitting room. Simon thought it probably would have looked more elegant without Mal bleeding all over the hearth, shackled to the mantel in an apparent daze.

Suddenly Simon's smile felt sharp, as if it were cutting his lips. He carefully stopped his eyes from trying to estimate Mal's injuries, and looked away as casually as possible.

Sitting in a commanding wingback chair opposite Mal was a man who might have been attractive in a vague, generic way if the smug expression suffusing his face hadn't made him look as though he were the human incarnation of arrogance. There was nothing about the man that didn't reek of haughtiness, and if Simon had ever tried to imagine the polar opposite of Mal, this would have been it. No wonder this Wing fellow and Mal had hated each other on sight.

"Atherton Wing, I presume? You have a most charming estate." Simon enunciated crisply, letting his educated elocution show to full effect. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of a slight twitching from Mal at the sound of his voice.

Atherton smirked in a way that was entirely unreassuring. "Thank you. And you must be Solomon. I retrieved your file after I received your wave. Your picture on the Cortex does not do you justice."

Simon kept his smile nailed to his face and offered his hand. "Thank you. Yes, I'm Solomon Dahl, currently attached to the luxury liner _Padmini_."

Atherton took Simon's hand in a grasp that was just a shade too tight for politeness, and his eyes glinted suspiciously. "Ah, yes. I heard they were passing. It's very good of you to leave your liner to come and see me."

"I'm pleased to get off the ship for a little while; one does so weary of recycled air and artificial lighting all the time, don't you find? And, of course, I'm especially happy to find such good company here on Persephone." Simon turned the wattage on his smile up a bit, and fluttered his eyelashes just a little. "Your profile in the Companion Registry is most...complimentary."

"_Is_ it, now?" Atherton pulled a little on the hand he still held, drawing Simon closer, sliding his other hand up Simon's arm in a slow caress. "How gratifying. And what could it possibly say about me that would tempt such a lovely creature as yourself?" The words should have been courtly, but there was an edge that ran under them, all dorsal fin peeking through glittering ocean.

Simon allowed himself to be drawn into Wing's personal space closely enough to smell the man's imported cologne, trying to yield smoothly enough to feel cooperative, but with just enough reticence to seem coy. And when had cologne started to smell cloyingly artificial to him, anyway?

Simon tilted his head a little so that he could look up at Wing through his eyelashes. "Oh, only that an evening spent with you can be..." he blinked once, long and slow, "...very fulfilling." Simon let his glance flick towards Mal briefly. "But I had no idea that you would be conducting less congenial business tonight." He let a hint of distaste color his tone, hoping that he wasn't pushing his luck.

Wing smiled wider and slipped an arm around Simon's waist. "Ah, Solomon. I fear that punishing thieves is my civic responsibility. I hope you can forgive me the brief unpleasantness of his presence."

"Brief?" Simon raised an eyebrow, trying to look only mildly concerned.

"Yes. I'm having him removed to our local jail shortly." Wing's eyes briefly slid to one of his thugs, and Simon repressed a derisive snort. He'd be willing to bet the infirmary's entire supply of sedatives that the only thing Wing intended for Mal involved bullets. "But before I arrange for his departure there's a small matter I must attend to first." Wing's thumb rubbed over the ridges of Simon's spine possessively. "I'm afraid I must ask for an ident card, my dear. We have had trouble with common whores trying to pass themselves off as Companions lately—not that I would believe such a thing of you, of course."

"Of course," Simon murmured. "But I'm afraid I seem to have left it on _Padmini_. I hope a thumb print scan will suffice?"

"Certainly." Wing waved at one of the flunkies still hovering in the doorway, who stepped forward and held out a small scanner. Wing took it from him and reached for Simon's hand, saying, "You must think me terribly inhospitable, I fear."

Simon let Wing kiss his hand and move it towards the scanner's plate. "Not at all. I understand that you must—"

"Simon?" Mal rasped from the hearth, showing that sterling sense of timing that got him into trouble so often. His voice was stripped so bare that only a little confusion and incredulity seeped into its cracks, and his head was raised at last. He squinted at Simon with a single eye, the other swollen so badly that it didn't seem to open at all.

Wing froze with Simon's thumb inches away from the scanner, his grip tightening around Simon's fingers suddenly. His gaze shifted between Mal and Simon suspiciously, and something ugly twisted across his face.

Simon swallowed hard and tried to keep his tone light as he turned his head to address Mal. "No, I'm afraid you misheard slightly. I said my name was _Solomon_." Simon tried to send a message with his eyes, willing Mal to play along.

Unfortunately, no one had ever cut into Mal's brain to make him a reader, and he wasn't exactly at his sharpest just now anyway.

"The hell? What're you doin' here? Shouldn't oughta be here." Mal's head shook back and forth slowly, telegraphing denial and confusion.

Wing's arm tightened around Simon's waist. "Should he not? How interesting. Is this another of your pet whores, Reynolds?"

Mal blinked his good eye blearily in obvious consternation. "Huh? Ain't no whore. He's a—"

"Companion!" Simon finished for him quickly. "It isn't the same thing. We don't like to be called whores."

Wing yanked Simon hard against his own body. "Too bad. But you are _his_, little whore. Aren't you? You came here for him."

"I..." Simon darted a desperate glance at Mal, who was working his way into a painful-looking scowl and pulling himself fully to his feet. "I don't...I mean, I'm _not_."

"I'm afraid I don't believe you." Wing hissed, almost directly into Simon's ear. He ground his hips hard against Simon's, his growing erection gouging insistently at Simon's belly. "I think you're his. And I think I'm going to enjoy making him watch while I take you." Wing took Simon's chin in his hand and wrenched Simon's head around to face Mal fully. "Your _kai tze_ is so pretty, Reynolds. Is he prettier when he's begging? When he's crying? Don't you want to see how pretty he is when I'm inside him?"

Simon felt a muscle in his jaw jump, but he held himself perfectly still otherwise. He could feel the bloom of bruises radiating from Wing's fingertips on his chin. Mal's good eye burned into his own; somewhere beneath his shock and anger, a detached part of Simon was surprised at the furious force behind that gaze.

Something happened to Mal's face; somehow it looked hard and sharper-edged, as if it were sculpted from rough stone instead of flesh. "_Go neong yung duh!_ You wanna take your hands off him, 'fore I take 'em off _you_," he spat, his voice clotted thick with rage.

Wing laughed, low and mocking. "That's what I thought." He yanked Simon's chin around until they were face to face again. "You want to earn this _wu ming shao jwu_'s life? Show me what you have to trade for it." His hands stayed on Simon, but he waited with a challenging eyebrow arched in silent expectation.

Simon could hear Mal rattling at his shackles in a furious cacophony of clanging, but he didn't look. Instead, he locked eyes with Wing, nodded once, and leaned in slowly to press his lips on Wing's.

Simon hadn't actually kissed all that many people, but he could picture the branches of nerves beneath Wing's lips perfectly in his mind's eye, like roots beneath soil, waiting for just the right touch to be wakened into a burst of biochemical frenzy of sensation. He knew where to feather the tip of his tongue against Wing's bottom lip to make the man shudder and press even closer. He knew where to press inside that greedy mouth to make the world fade to background noise.

Which, Simon reflected, was a pretty good thing, since it meant that Wing didn't notice when Simon pressed his thumb against the plate of the scanner that still dangled, forgotten, from Wing's hand.

The explosion that followed only seconds later, alas, was a little too much for any amount of kissing to drown out. The metallic sounds of Mal's struggle subsided into a sudden surprised stillness.

Wing reared back from Simon, even as the flunkies by the door ran out of the room toward the continuing sounds of explosives and gunfire. His fist cracked hard into Simon's cheekbone in a bright burst of pain, sending Simon sprawling across the cold marble floor. "_Meh lien duh jyah jee!_ What did you _do_? What..."

Simon looked calmly up at Atherton Wing as the man's expression of thunderous fury dissolved into shocked surprise and his knees started to give way. There was a muffled thump as Wing hit the ground in a boneless heap. He blinked heavy lids weakly at Simon, and his jaw worked slightly, but nothing came out. One hand twitched uselessly, a little like a landed fish.

Simon scrubbed his sleeve hard over his lips a few times. "Well. Now that I've met you, I must say that the mystery of your inability to attract romantic company deepens," Simon told him in a voice infused with pure sarcastic disdain. "I simply cannot imagine how anyone could fail to be moved by your considerable charms." Simon rose to his feet gracefully, brushing his clothes off. "And I feel compelled to add that it's really quite appalling to see what passes for high society on this planet."

"I'm shocked my own self," Mal said dryly, dark amusement showing even through the rasping grate of his voice. "An' not just 'bout that. If my eyes ain't deceivin' me, I do believe that was a Goodnight Kiss."

Simon bent down to rifle through the unresisting Wing's pockets until he found a small key. "More or less. It was the only weapon I could think of that his guards wouldn't spot." He straightened up and hurried over to Mal to unlock the shackles. "But we were short on the proper supplies, so I made do with a mixture that causes temporary partial paralysis." He immediately caught at Mal's newly released arms to inspect the damage, probing his fingers carefully over Mal's skin.

"Paralysis...?" Mal's gaze turned from Simon toward Wing with new interest. "You mean he ain't out cold?"

"No. He should be rather dazed and unable to manage any kind of coordinated muscle control, but still conscious," Simon murmured distractedly, his hands pulling gently at Mal's chin to try to get a better look at the swollen eye.

"That so?" Mal said quietly.

There was something predatory and dangerous in Mal's soft tone, something that put Simon in mind of quiet footsteps behind him in a darkened alley or the very first rumblings that preceded an earthquake; it stilled the motion of Simon's hands and pulled his attention back to Mal's face. The expression he found there made him catch his breath and close one hand carefully over the curve of Mal's shoulder.

"Captain," Simon said gently. The shoulder under his hand vibrated slightly with tension, taut as piano wire. That burning gaze didn't break away from Wing, either. "_Mal_," Simon tried, more insistently this time, gripping the iron-clenched muscle beneath his hand a little more tightly.

Mal's face finally swung back toward Simon at that. He met Simon's even regard challengingly. His only still-mobile eyebrow curled down into a frown that looked painful. "You tryin' to tell me you ain't right keen on gettin' a little of our own back, _Solomon?_ Seein' as he's still awake to know it an' all."

"Please don't," was all Simon answered.

"He won't forget 'bout this. Or you. Sure you want that?"

Simon glanced at Wing and nodded slowly. "Given our visitors lately...," he left a telling pause, but he didn't name Early or the men from Blue Sun outright. No sense making it _too_ easy for Wing to connect the name Tam to Serenity, even if that horse seemed to have well and truly escaped its barn already. "I'm not at all convinced that it matters."

"Might be you got a point there." The muscles in Mal's jaw worked slowly but some of the humming tightness ebbed from the shoulder beneath Simon's hand. Something Simon couldn't name passed across Mal's battered face and settled there. "Mercy's the quality of a great man. Already proved to this _joo bah jeh_ that I ain't that once before. But if that's how you want this to go, it will. I reckon you got the right."

Simon almost wanted to ask if the implied compliment he heard in that was purely a figment of his imagination, but he was fairly certain that Mal would never admit it if it wasn't. He restrained himself to simply, "Thank you."

Mal's head ducked in a short acknowledging nod. "Guess I should say the same. What the gorram hell were you thinkin' comin' here, anyway? Wouldn't never have expected you to. Ain't your place to go an' do things like that."

Simon felt his lips curling irresistibly at the corners, and he shrugged easily. "You're my captain," he said, because really, he'd been waiting awhile to say those words back to Mal. "Why are we still talking about this?"

He didn't think Mal quite knew what it meant that he'd come for them on Jiangyin, in spite of having every logical reason in the 'Verse to leave them behind. Simon's own _parents_ hadn't gone so far. How could he explain that the dependable foundations of his world had been shattered when he found out what the Alliance was doing to River, and that he'd felt abandoned and unsafe ever since—until Jiangyin? And even if he could find words, saying them to a cranky, prickly, unpredictable man like Mal seemed like a fairly bad idea.

Except possibly Mal _did_ understand, because the odd, intense expression on his face lingered and deepened, and his arm turned under Simon's grip to clasp his own hand around Simon's silk-sheathed forearm.

"Well now," Mal rasped, his voice gone even rougher, "I always say there ain't nothin' in the 'Verse so fine as loyalty."

His hand squeezed Simon's arm unexpectedly, the thumb rubbing once with a soft whisper of silk. Simon had the dizzy sense of a whole conversation worth of meaning being compressed into that simple, rare touch, though he could not have said just why. Mal, he'd noticed, did not touch anyone often—but small wonder, if it was always so expressive.

"I..." Simon faltered a bit and felt his face heating unaccountably. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes. Yes, exactly." He licked his lips slightly, and was startled to catch Mal's eye darting down at the appearance of his tongue.

"That safe? What with all them," Mal waved a hand back and forth in the general direction of Simon's lips, "paralyzin' things on there."

"I rubbed the remainder of the dose off onto my sleeve. I'm reasonably certain I got it all." Simon wiped his sleeve across his lips again by way of demonstration.

Mal's gaze returned to holding Simon's, and he stepped closer in a sort of weaving motion that reminded Simon strongly of the hypnotic sway of a snake charmer. "Best to be sure, 'bout somethin' like that," Mal murmured in a low voice. "Mighty troublesome to paralyze your own self by accident, I expect."

"Well, yes," Simon found himself whispering, transfixed, leaning toward Mal's nearing body as if it were exerting gravitational pull. "I expect it would be."

"Conjure there's only one way to know for certain," Mal said, so close now that Simon could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

Simon swallowed slowly. _This_ must be what going mad really felt like, because he could swear that Mal was radiating an entirely unexpected kind of interest. "Um. Yes. Well. There's a simple test I can run with a swabbing and solution of hydro—"

And Mal suddenly leaned in the last few inches to press his mouth over Simon's, cutting him off firmly, derailing even the idea behind the words. At least, Simon thought a little manically, he wasn't actually going mad after all. Yet.

Mal's lips moved firmly, but with greater gentleness than Simon would have expected; they slid back and forth slowly over Simon's, more nuzzling than kissing. Mal's other hand wrapped around the back of Simon's neck, where it kneaded slightly at the tense muscles there and coaxed Simon to press closer.

And all right, Simon had _looked_, maybe even idly wondered about the surprisingly honorable if often infuriating Captain, but he'd never quite imagined this. He'd certainly never expected to follow the urging of the hand at his nape, to lean into the astonishing kiss easily. Mal rumbled approval, the vibrations teasing against Simon's mouth in bright sparks of sensation.

Feeling a little reckless and more than a little lightheaded, Simon snaked the tip of his tongue out to brush against Mal's lower lip as it undulated smoothly against his own, skating over torn places gingerly. Mal tasted of copper and iron, all blood and earth. Exploring Atherton Wing's lips had been following a map of nerve-endings that Simon could call to mind easily; exploring Mal's was more like obeying an innate sense of direction, all instinct without artifice or planning.

Mal nipped lightly at Simon's tongue and curled his own past it to slide into Simon's mouth even as his hand slid up silken sleeve and started trailing down Simon's chest purposefully. The tracing of fingers over his suddenly fluttering stomach made Simon tear his mouth free to gasp for breath.

He opened wide, shocked eyes onto Mal's battered face. If there were words to contain the questions that stalled in his throat, Simon couldn't think of them. He had a whole new wealth of evidence in favor of his theory that Mal's touch had a revealing language all its own, though. Insistent fingers cupped over Simon's hip in a fashion that felt distinctly possessive, and when the heel of that hand slid inwards in a firm stroke over Simon's swelling hardness, it felt like some kind of command. A soft, breathless cry broke free to keen from Simon's throat and his hips stuttered forward as Mal repeated the motion even harder. Mal still stared into Simon's face, which felt somehow even more startlingly intimate than the grinding of his palm over Simon's cock.

"Yeeha! Look at 'em a-runnin' round in circles like a peck'a headless chickens!" A loud voice, unmistakably Jayne's, boomed from somewhere just outside the room.

They both froze in place, not even breathing for a moment. The continuing sound of gunfire finally filtered back into Simon's consciousness, and it was definitely getting quite close now.

Mal loosed hold of Simon abruptly and stepped back sharply. The intense, unreadable look fled from his face, replaced by a tightly shuttered expressionlessness that left Simon feeling cold.

"Mal...?" Simon tried, his tone awkwardly lost somewhere between confusion and dismay.

Mal's gaze evaded Simon's, flitting to Wing instead. "Hope you looked your fill on what you ain't never gonna have. You don't touch any a'mine, not ever again. Else there'll be no short of peril comin' down plumb on that _buhn dahn_ head a'yours."

Simon's arms snapped up to fold defensively in front of himself automatically. "_That's_ what this is about? Just putting your rival in his place, proving that he can't take anything away from you?"

"Can't think of nothin' else it should be." Mal still wouldn't look at him.

Merciful Buddha, had he actually thought Mal's touch was speaking to him? What had he been _thinking_? If it had said anything at all, clearly it had only spoken lies.

"Of course not," Simon agreed, his voice flat. "Perhaps you'd like to urinate on my shoes just to be sure he took your meaning."

Mal barked out a short, harsh laugh. "Don't think that's called for. Not this time, anyway. Not to mention, I do believe those're your best shoes. Be a shame to ruin 'em."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Captain." Simon turned away, looking toward the door just as Zoë appeared in its frame. "I wouldn't have guessed that you had any consideration for the things that you walk on." And he strode out of the room past Zoë with his head held high, dignity gathered tightly around himself.

*********

Serenity hummed along through the black towards Lilac in the deepest part of ship's night. Except for the constant background drone of the engines, only the occasional plaintive bleat of a goat broke the quiet. Mal limped back and forth in the galley, calming his restlessness—not guilt or regret or any such fool thing, because he was adamantly _not_ thinking about anything that called for those _at all_—in the familiar ritual of making tea. When his brew was finally dark enough to be as bitter as his mood, he lurched painfully into a chair with the warm mug cradled in both hands.

"You," River said, peeking up from under the table across from Mal and startling him out of a few years of life, "are an utter nincompoop."

Mal sighed. "No use denyin' that. Likely the sanest thing you said all day, little girl."

"Teaspoon of salt to a cup of sugar. Makes the sweet taste sweeter," she said earnestly, as if it were very important. "You like a little salt, just enough to make you snarl, get under your skin. But too much confounds you."

"Got me the same hankerin's as any man, without need of salt anyplace," he snapped, even though he suspected that he had an idea what she meant. "Your brother know you ain't a-bed?"

River rolled her eyes at him and waved one hand above the table in an airily dismissive gesture. "You're reading the wrong story."

"I'll take that for a no." Mal raised his good eyebrow at her.

River shook her head. "Not how it goes. Prince finds Cinderella in the last house he visits, all hidden behind pretty sisters and black soot. He doesn't see, not at first. Not until the shoe fits."

Mal had a distinctly sinking feeling about the direction of this conversation. "Think I've heard 'nough about shoes today, _mei mei_."

"Yes. The equation is roughly equivalent, though several of the variables are incongruent. But still." River blinked gravely back at him. "It's probably because you're an utter nincompoop."

Mal sighed and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes wearily. It was going to be a long way to Lilac.

*********

_kai tze_: somewhat derogatory slang for male companion or boyfriend  
_Go neong yung duh_: son of a bitch  
_wu ming shao jwu_: peon, nobody, worthless little foot soldier  
_Meh lien duh jyah jee_: faceless bastard prostitute  
_joo bah jeh_: ugly or perverted person  
_buhn dahn_: idiot, moron  
_mei mei_: little sister


End file.
